Ethan Chandler, a man with a different past
by TheWriterWithWings
Summary: Another version of Ethan Chandler, a journey into a possible past.
1. Chapter 1

One single knock at the door woke him up and he sat up, wary, confused, his heart racing just like every time he caught himself sleeping. He looked around before starting to calm down.

Yes, yes he remembered where he was.

London, the small room behind the warehouse, the one he was living - or rather surviving- for a couple of weeks already.

He was breathless and covered in sweat. Another short nap, another too long nightmare. It took him a minute to convince himself he was fine. No rain on his face, no mud under his feet, no blood on his hands.

He looked down at his fists and forced them to relax and open. He groaned as his tensed muscles ached and confirmed him he was alive.

Great.

He got up and rubbed his face. He knew that there was no one waiting behind the door. It was just a signal to tell him it was time to get ready. He could hear agitation outside, horses and men, coming and going, excited shouts, drunk laughters.

The usual crowd.

He walked towards the window and looked outside to watch them, those men living the perfect life during the day, good husbands and fathers having a respectable existence, existence that got them so bored they felt the need to escape it, spending hundreds of dollars to witness fights, other men, less blessed by Fate, hitting and hurting each other for the rich men's entertainment and in Chandler's case, to get rid of the rage, of the rumble of violence that was constantly crawling under his skin.

He sighed and turned around looking for his shirt.

He found it and put it on then he met his own eyes in the reflection of the small mirror on the wall. He didn't recognize himself at first. Not that he had changed so much since he had arrived in England. He was an ex-soldier, silent and mourning, mannered still but rough at times when he disembarked the boat that had him crossing the ocean. The journey had been monotonous but he didn't mind that. He had found a few books that he had read only when no one could see him, like it was almost shameful for him to get caught reading. It was an old habit from his time in the army. Soldiers aren't supposed to read.

Soldiers aren't supposed to do many things.

The only adventure on that boat had been provided by that lady, slightly older than him, a widow feeling lonely, a woman used to luxury and pretty things who obvioulsy wanted to taste something different. She had been seeking for his company for the first weeks, even if he had made clear he was more the lonely type. That he didn't like to be touched. But it had seemed to increase her interest and she had made a point to introduce him to her 'friends' as a war hero.

Ironic, he had thought.

He had taken him a shit load of brandy and expensive whiskeys to go through the first night in her cabin but outside the fact he didn't care, there was that void inside him that would just grow deeper and larger anytime he was around people, people who were looking at him without seeing him. And in his desperate attempt to disappear into that void, he would always get himself into situations that he would despise, that would make him despise himself.

Like every night in the widow's arms.

Or every fight in the warehouse.

What had he become? He asked silently to the reflection in the mirror.

Of course, the man in the mirror couldn't answer. He kept looking at Chandler with an empty look, a tired face and a dying soul.

Dying, yes. He wished it was easier.

He had left the widow without a word, knowing from the get go that his company was just something to pass time on the boat. He had eaten at the captain's table. Drank his fancy alcohol and endured the curious looks.

There was nothing fancy in that warehouse. And again, all the eyes would be on him. Curious how he would always ended being the center of attention when he felt like a ghost inside.

He looked away to grab the bandages to wrap his knuckles with. The bandages were covered in dried blood -not all his- and sweat but he had no other. He would have to clean them at some point.

Undefeated.

It was a title he couldn't be proud of. To him, it was just a sign that his rage, his madness couldn't be equalled or matched….or tamed by anyone. There was something inside him, something that needed to get out, to take control.

And that was the only thing that was frightening him.

Everything that was happening after the snap.

Everything during the black-out.

He exited the room, head down, focusing on his steps before heading towards the inside of the warehouse. The smell of the cigars and the noises of the voices were already sickening him. Without a look up or a word, he passed the spectators and entered the ring that was made of simple ropes and barbwires. He ignored the excited shoutings to sit in a corner on a small stool and he adjusted the bandages once more, waiting for his opponent to show up. He never knew who he was going to fight, he never asked. He supposed this was another reason for the owner of the warehouse, the man organizing the fights, to tolerate him so much. Chandler never asked anything.

Another man soon entered the ring. An Irish, obviously. Huge, redhaired, his bare chest already covered in sweat, the man was smelling like a barrel of whiskey. Chandler stood up and went to stand in the middle of the circle then he waited.

He was never the one hitting first and for a very good reason. That it was hard to believe or not, Chandler had never liked fighting. He had never enjoyed violence. Going to the army had never been his calling but his father had never let him another choice. His soon would be a soldier like he had been and his father before him. So Chandler had followed a path traced for him by generations he barely had known of.

And now here he was, knowing nothing else but to fight. All his foolish dreams had been buried the day he had put on an uniform for the first time. He had been obeying his father during all his childhood. And the day of his fifteenth birthday, he had been sent away to follow the orders of someone else, a rifle pushed in his hands and an enemy designed to him by one or the other officer.

But he had never enjoyed killing.

He wouldn't hit first because he needed a trigger. He needed a reason to get mad. He needed a reason to snap. After the first punch in his face, after the first taste of blood on his tongue, he would be able to lose control and to enter the fog that was his mind every time he had to fight. Everything happening after that was not his doing, it was the Rage. It was the Pain.

It was his Past.

A flash of pain blinded him when the Irish, exasperated to wait for a provocation, had hit him in the stomach. Chandler grunted and spit out a the Irish's feet before chuckling. He felt eyes on him, he heard vaguely people shouting at him to fight already. As he chuckled, the Irish was staring at him, not knowing how to react. Chandler saw him looking around as if the answer was on the face of the crowd. Encouraged by the rich and excited lords, the Irish shrugged and came at Chandler again to punch him but when he did, Chandler's eyes went darker and he took one small step sideway before grabbing surprisingly strongly and quick the Irish's wrist and using his own weight to twist the man's arm in order to get him to bend and stumble. Without releasing him, Chandler kicked the back of his knee with his feet and twisted the arm more as the Irish fell on both knees, groaning in pain and shocked indignation. He was twice the size of the Yankee….how could have he been overmastered so quickly?

Not losing any second -he knew the Iris was physically stronger than he was, he couldn't give him the opportunity to take the advantage-, Chandler turned on himself and punched the man behind the shoulder, where the shoulder and the twisted arm met. He heard a crack and it made him smirk. He punched and slammed again until he heard a louder crack then he unexpectedly released his opponent and stood back.

He spit out again, not surprised to see blood in his spit this time. Shit happened all the time lately.

The Irish literally howled in pain and managed to get up, his broken arm hanging uselessly along his side. His eyes widened, he rushed towards Chandler and punched him so hard in the face with his good hand that the world seemed to sparkle inside his head, red and white stars invading his sight. An insufferable pain rised from the base of his nose and caused him to snap. Finally.

He countered the next punch with his fist hitting the broken shoulder and a round kick towards the man's head, sending the Irish back and fall at the feet of the spectators, unconscious.

Chandler was about to rush towards him to hit him all the same but then his eyes fell on the man behind the unconscious Irish. He looked like just another rich spectator but his eyes ….seemed to pierce Chandler's soul. He froze and stared at him, out of breathe and aching. He felt exposed and …./seen/. Not just looked at. It felt like the man could /see/ him, all he was, all he had done.

He couldn't look away. The noises around him turned into a vague background music.

Suddenly, an impatient man behind him slapped his shoulder and shouted into his ear to cut it out and finish the fight. "HIT HIM. END IT, YOU VICIOUS DOG", the man yelled.

Chandler growled and instead of walking to the Irish, he turned around and hit the man behind him, causing quite a shocked gasp from the crowd. People started to shout in indignation but Chandler couldn't hear them. He wasn't here anymore. There was only his fist, punching the man over and over again then hands, dozens of them grabbing him, pulling him back, taking him away.

He had been thrown out into the back alley behind the warehouse.

Exhausted, sore, Chandler had leaned against the wall and slid against it to sit on the cold floor, resting his wrists on his knees. He rolled his head back to press it against the dirty wall and barely opened his eyes when the owner, furious and indignated, had come back to ditch his few belongs next to him before throwing at his face the few bills he had earned from his victory.

"That's all you'll get. The rest will have to cover that poor man's medical costs. You almost kill him, you insane piece of shit. I don't want to see you here ever again or I will call the police, ya hear me?" he had yelled before closing the door behind him.

Chandler snickered and sighed.

Well. At least, not every day was looking the same than the previous one.

He sighed again and winced, his chest aching. He guessed the few men that had been necessary to get him out had taken the opportunity to beat him on the way. He couldn't remember.

He opened his eyes and looked at his hands. Yes, the bandages had reached the end of the road this time. Just like him.

They were soaked in blood and he couldn't tell which blood it was. He wiped his bloody nose with his fist before starting to undo the bandages to see how bad it was this time. It wouldn't be the first time he broke his hands.

Probably explained why they were so hard to open in the morning. Their natural state were clenched fists now, that he was awake or not. Fighting when he was awake. Fighting when he was asleep.

He was too tired to go anywhere anyway. And he had nowhere to go.

Then he felt it.

There was someone else in the alley with him. Someone watching him.

He continued to undo the bandages, more slowly this time, all his senses in alert just in case.

"No more fight for me tonight", he said tiredly, loud enough to be heard.

"So if that's trouble you're looking for, I'll suggest you look elsewhere. I'm not having the best day right now."


	2. Chapter 2

The man laughed briefly before walking to stand in front of him. Chandler didn't look up just yet. But focused on his hands, he could see the man's boots. Shiny and new. Expensive probably. Not the kind of shoes you expect to see on anyone in a dirty back alley.

"I am not looking for trouble, Mr Chandler. But I do recognize a good story when I see one. And I want yours. Now….considering the situation you're now in, I can only assume you could use some money to find yourself a new place to stay. And clean bandages. I am willing to pay you...in exchange for that tale of yours."

The man's voice was loud and clear. He didn't sound drunk and he didn't seem to joke. With a tired sigh, Ethan finally looked up at the man's face. He was surprisingly young and tall. And he was smiling.

Ethan wasn't sure to like that smile. Or the reason behind it.

He tilted his head and shrugged with one shoulder.

"What story?", he asked before nodding once toward the back door of the warehouse. "All there was to see happened in here. You were inside, I saw you."

He focused his gaze back on his hands and tried to move each finger cautiously. A few of them caused a flash of pure, intense pain that made his heart start to beat inside his head.

When the man spoke again, his muffled voice didn't reach Ethan's mind directly. He probably noticed it by the grimace on Ethan's face and he crouched in front of the fighter to catch his eyes and repeat what he had said.

"Your story, Mr Chandler. I want you to tell me what brought you here. And how you turned into what you are now. Whatever your price is, I believe it will be worth it."

Ethan grunted and rolled his head back to press it against the cold wall behind him. He waited until the dark spots dancing in front of his eyes started to fade enough for him to look back into the tall man's eyes.

"How do you know my name to start with? And why are you so interested in knowing how I became such a mess, huh? Looking for a good story to tell during mondane and boring dinners?", he growled.

The pain had slaughtered the remains of his patience. All he wanted was to crawl somewhere and sleep it off. Tomorrow was another day. Another day to worry about the one after that and the one after after that. Each day its burden. Tonight all he wanted was to forget.

He didn't feel like talking. At all.

The man reached out to place his hand on Ethan's wrist. Ethan narrowed his eyes but didn't move. There was something too strange about that man for him to simply push him away. And the rage inside him, the one crawling constantly under his skin, had been fed for the day with the blood of the Irish and the other man. It was sleeping somewhere deep within the fighter, leaving his body too exhausted to fight again.

"I know many things. But I am not interested into how you started to fight for a few dollars in warehouses with men as desperate as sinking ships. I want to know how you, a brave and obedient soldier, a very skilled shooter...turned into a wolf. /This/ is the story I'm ready to pay for.", the man said calmly.

Ethan tensed and clenched his jaw. He looked around to check if they were alone. Was it a sick joke from the bounty hunters who were chasing after him?

His eyes fell on the man again. Clearly, he belonged to the most wealthy class. He was probably not the type to fret with the kind of men who were earning their livings by carryng balls and chains to catch fugitives.

"I don't know what you are talking about", he retorted. "You're probably mistaking me with someone else. I have that kind of face...the kind you think you saw before. Now...Sir...I advise you to go home before someone notices you and decides to rob you. Pretty boots. You'd be surprised what the people around here would be able to do to get some like these.", he warned. He forced himself to look down at his fists again, hoping this conversation was over. Nausea was starting to overwhelm him and he knew too damn well it wasn't caused by just pain.

The man pulled away and shook his head.

"I don't fear thieves, Mr Chandler. But I agree with you on the going home part. Join me. I can offer you a comfortable bed and a decent dinner for tonight. Then, once you will feel rested, maybe we can talk a little more.".

He stood up and took one step back.

"Come on, Mr Chandler. We both know you would be a fool to refuse."

Ethan snickered. "I wouldn't have lived that long if I was stupid enough to follow strangers anywhere. Do I look like a stray dog you can simply pick up and take home….Sir?" he spitted out the last word, looking up at the man through the few strands of dirty hair covering half of his face.

The man remained silent before starting to laugh, a whole-hearted laugh, that startled the fighter.

"Ah, Mister Chandler….you and I will get along just fine, I believe. No, no, I don't see you as a stray dog. I know that wolves are lonely creatures. But even them get hungry and tired, don't they? But I apologize. Where are my manners indeed? My name is Abe Van Helsing. I'm just a professor fascinated by….let us call it 'the unusual'. And you, Sir, are unusual. Now please….do not take offense of my insistance. All I want is the story. Whatever you will tell me….will stay between us. Let's make a deal. You tell me yours, I tell you mine. After a nice dinner and a couple of drinks. I mean you no harm...not to mention that I would be rather stupid to provoke a fight with you."

The man opened his arms and smiled. "I have no doubt you could overpower me pretty easily if you felt threatened. Am I right?"

Ethan listened to the man carefully before pushing himself onto his feet, using the wall behind him to stand up and support himself.

"I've learned that men who pretended to be weak are the ones you must be the most wary of. If you're just a professor then I'm a freaking lady.", Ethan muttered.

He was tired, he was cold and he was in pain. Indeed he would be stupid to refuse such a tempting offer. But tempting offers were often the first step to Hell.

Not like he wasn't there already.

He sighed deeply before nodding.

"Fine. I'll go with you. Doesn't mean I"ll say anything because I still don't know what you're talking about", he huffed.

"Of course, of course", Van Helsing said. Even if the smile on his face seemed to tell a whole different story.

He guided the fighter out of the alley and pointed at the corner of the street.

"I happen to live not far from here. That's how I knew there was a wolf in town. The dogs in the neighborhood have been whining for weeks and feeling utterly nervous. Do you always have this effect on them?", he asked excitedly.

Ethan glanced at the man before clearing his throat.

Damn.

Could he really know?

And...did he meet others like him?

This was a question that had tortured Chandler's mind for years. Whether or not there were others like him living among the people, pretending to be normal...pretending to not be...what he was.

"Why would I have any effect on animals?", he grumbled. "Do I look like a fairytale to you? Are you that kind of professor, maybe...the looney kind?

Provocation was his main weapon when he felt uncomfortable. So far, no one knew about him. How the Hell could that man have figured it out without Ethan noticing he was even watched to start with?

As they were walking side by side, Van Helsing started to explain.

"Mister Chandler….I've been through many things. Most of them...You wouldn't believe. I saw what lies underneath the layers of our reality. I hunted and met the evil. I lost dear ones because of it. I could have turned insane. But instead, I've become fascinated by all the secrets of the world around us. You cannot unsee what you saw nor unlearn what you've been taught. Trust me, I'd rather be a lunatic sometimes. But I know that most of the monsters in the tales we tell our children are real. I met one. Now don't get me wrong. I am not calling you a monster, Mr Chandler. I know how these looked liked. I've seen them from way too close."

His voice died in his throat and Chandler looked curiously at him.

Then he rolled his eyes.

Wonderful. Now he wanted to hear Van Helsing's story. God, he was such a pushover sometimes.

Van Helsing stayed silent until they reached a large and elegant mansion.

"This is where I live for now. It is not mine. It used to belong to Mrs Archer's family. After she passed away...I couldn't resolve myself to leave it behind. And since no one requested me to do so...My nostalgia kept me here for far too long. But who knows? Maybe it is Fate that knew our paths would cross, Mr Chandler."

He unlocked the door and opened it.

"Come on in and feel yourself at home. I will make us some dinner.". He passed Ethan and disappeared in a hallway leaving Chandler alone and mesmerized.

What a singular man, this Van Helsing.

Finding a wounded wolf outside, bringing him home….then turning his back to him like he was trusting the beast enough to not fear being maimed under his roof.

Chandler frowned then met his own eyes into a large mirror on the wall. He didn't recognize himself at first. It had been so long since he had acted civilized.

He shook himself up and turned around to close the door behind him. Then, welcomed by just wood cracks and ghostly whispers, he entered what looked like a dining room. Not knowing what to do with himself, not wanting to sit anywhere as he became rather conscious of how filthy his clothes and himself were, he walked around the table slowly, waiting for his host to reappear.

Then his eyes fell on something that made him smile. Something he had sorely missed.

Countless books pressed together on various shelves on the wall.

Happy to find something to keep him busy, he walked toward them and saluted each one with a gentle tap of his index upon their cover.

The wolf was starting to relax. People who loved books couldn't be evil at heart.

It was his only comfort. He loved them. He couldn't be just a beast.

He was an educated one.


	3. Chapter 3

He found himself quite relaxed as he was on the couch near the fireplace, adjusting the new and clean bandages around his knuckles. Van Helsing insisted to take care of his wounds before serving dinner and Ethan, embarrassed but deciding the man meant no harm, accepted with a polite nod. He listened to Van Helsing's countless stories about the past, stories about wolves and ghosts that fascinated Ethan more than he showed.

The dinner was simple but better than anything the fighter had eaten during the past months. Van Helsing as a good host took care of the conversation almost all by himself. Ethan was not stupid, he knew it was in the hope to get the story the man really wanted.

His.

And now here he was, warm and fed, relaxed and comfortable, with a glass of expensive brandy on the small table in front of him and a professor who was trying to hide his excitment and failing. The way he was rubbing his palms over the thick fabric of his jacket betrayed him. Along with the way he was staring at him for a few seconds before letting out a 'Well!" every now and then.

Ethan realised he was keeping the professor waiting only because he didn't want to remember. This wasn't really fair. The man had kept his part of the contract. Ethan's gaze trailed over the dinner table, still covered with the remains of the shared meal, before falling on his hands, on the white and clean bandages covering his open wounds.

He sighed and crossed his legs, right ankle resting on his left knee. He noticed how his clothes and shoes looked dirty and worn out.

It was exactly how he felt.

"You want my story", he said out loud, his eyes avoiding the professor's. He didn't need to look at him to know the man was nodding, waiting politely for him to speak.

The fighter took a deep breath. "Well, you know my name already. And the fact that I was a soldier. I was a soldier before being a wolf. At least, that's what I always thought." he started.

He paused and realised it was the first time he admitted to be a wolf out loud to anyone. It felt oddly natural.

Maybe he had accepted his nature somewhere along the way. But by trying with all the energy of the despair to forget about it all, he never took the time to notice.

He shook his head slightly and finally looked up at the man in front of him. It was time to tell someone what happened. Van Helsing was a complete stranger. Maybe it was the best way to get it out.

"I never wanted to join the army. It was a family tradition. My father...was a very strong man. Soldier himself just like his father before him. Sent home after the war with a crippled leg that turned him mean and bitter. I never understood what My mother saw in him. Why she even considered marrying him. She was quiet and delicate. She taught me how to read, how to listen to the wind. She had Cherokee blood in her veins. She knew many stories about nature. About animals. Stories my father had forbidden her to tell me about because he was convinced it was not what I needed to become a man. I never saw him show any affection to her. But he never raised a hand on her either. It was like he feared the potential consequences. My mother was quiet indeed….but she was strong in her way. Now I understand why. I think.

Anyway...she got sick when I was ten. Very sick. I remember an old lady and a tall man, Cherokees as well, coming to our home and taking her with them. Saying she needed her people's medicine. She wanted me to come with them but my father didn't allow it. The last time I saw her, she was carried away on the back of a horse, wrapped up in colorful blankets, her eyes half-closed, tears rollong down her cheeks as to reflect mines.

I spent years hoping she'd come back. Of course, she never did.

When I turned , Father decided I had to join the army. He pushed a rifle in my hands, brought be to the recruitment office in town, told me to come back as a hero or in a body bag. There was no third option for him.

And to be honest, I had no intention to come back at all.

The army was even worse than I expected. I never liked rules. At least, not the ones I had to follow. You were never alone, never able to sit somewhere and read. You always had someone on your back telling you what to do and how. I hated every single day of it till I met the Sergeant. I don't know what he saw in me but he told me I was going to be on his squad and that he will make a soldier out of me. At first, I saw him just as another officer trying to make my life a living Hell.

But he was different. He was patient and he was passionated. He taught me how to 'tame' my riffle. Made me spent nights disassembling, cleaning and putting together my rifle. Over and over again. He taught me how to listen to the mechanisms to get how they worked, how to feel the wind and define distances. And all that without letting me shoot once.

He used to say "You will shoot the day you will get what shooting means'. It made no sense to me at first. But when I managed to hit a beer can from a half mile away for the first time? It made me proud. It made me want to learn more. To get better at it. And he gave me dozens of books about rifles and technics and weaponry. the man definitely knew how to get my attention.

These days were the best I spent during my time there. It felt good to learn and to be good at something. It felt good to...belong.

Everything changed when we got sent to war. The beer cans became people. People I didn't even know why they had to die. Except for the fact they were shooting at us, that is.

I remember the rain. And the cold. The night spent in the mud, listening to the night, wondering what kind of horrors you will have to deal with the next day. Wondering if you were going to get a next day, actually.

That night, we were hiding in the pouring rain for the enemies to make a move. I was cold to the bone and so tired. We all were.

The Sargeant decided we couldn't wait anymore. He ordered me and the radio officer to climb up the hill and to seek a higher ground where I could cover the squad while the radio officer would try to contact the headquarter. The rest of the squad would try to get closer to the enemy lines and get a better visual.

I don't know what happened. Before we got up the hill, we heard gun shots and screams. When we got there, I tried to find my team using the scope of my rifle. There was blood everywhere. No sight of my squad. The radio officer managed to contact the HQ and they told us to head south and join another squad that was patrolling around the area. I had no choice. We found the other squad and the officer there told us it would be suicidal to go back on our own to see if any of my mates had made it. That we had to wait for orders and back-ups.

It makes sense to me now but back then…..The squad had been ordered to move further the next day. A rescue team would be sent when possible. We had no contact with my team. No sign any of them were still alive.

I just couldn't give up on them like that. The Sergeant was my mentor. I knew he would never give up on any of his men so easily.

So when the night came, I stole a few weapons and I left the camp. I didn't plan to save them all and play the hero. But I thought….Maybe I could at least find if they were still alive and where they were kept. I would come back with informations. No one else would have to risk their life. I was on my own, discrete, with a good rifle.

I was confident this was the only right thing to do. So I didn't even hesitate. I had a good sense of orientation, I could listen to the woods just fine. All I needed was to follow the tracks, evaluate the situation. And come back before dawn with informations that could convince the headquarters to move faster.

It didn't take me long to find them. Or what was left of them. Three of my mates were dead, barely hidden under the bushes. I followed the tracks to a camp next to the mountain. It would be a camp difficult to attack. With the mountain watching over it, the enemies had a lot of escape ways we wouldn't be able to block or see. An attack would turn into their advantage rather fast. And give them the time to shoot the prisoners before disappearing.

I found myself a good spot to observe the camp. Bushes on a small hill, high enough for me to see what was going on and thick enough to hide me. As I was there, watching...I remember the way my heart skipped a beat when I felt a presence next to me. I froze, sure that if I moved, it would be to find a canon pointed at my head.

Except of that, I turned my head to see a huge grey wolf standing next to me. Watching in the same direction than me. I couldn't move. Hell, I barely dared breathing. He was beautiful, strong...He looked at me and it was like he could see through me. Then just like that...he turned around and walked away.

Something in me wanted to follow him. I swear, it was….compelling. I got up and tried to see where he was heading to but he had disappeared just as quickly as he had showed up.

That's pretty much how I got captured. After I stood up, looking around for the wolf, I heard a crack behind me. Before I could move, I had red spots dancing on my chest. Snipers ready to take me down. I held up my hands, hiding my rifle under the bushes with my foot.

They surrounded me, three men with guns, yelling in a language I couldn't understand. They hit me to get me on my knees before searching me and dragging me to their camp.

I was sure I was about to die. The rain was washing over me, over everything. They dropped me in the middle of the camp, knees in the mud, hands behind my head.

I looked around to see the camp was half empty. 10...15 men at most. All armed and on edge.

A tall man rushed to me and grabbed me by the throat. Yelling as well. I tried to say that I didn't get a word of what he was saying but soon, he started to shout in English. He wanted to know how many soldiers were out there. If I was alone.

Where I was coming from.

I didn't say a word and it pissed him off. He hit me hard in teh face with the back of his hand and I felt blood filling my mouth. Like it was going to make me speak.

He leaned in and grabbed my jacket, watching the insign on it closer.

He smirked and walked away, leaving me here in a circle of men with their guns pointed at me.

When he came back, I tried to get up but one of the bastard behind me hit the back of my knee with the handle of his weapon.

The tall guy was dragging the sergeant by pulling him by the collar of his uniform. He threw him in front of him and ordered him to kneel, hands behind his head, in front of me.

The sergeant obeyed with a grunt. Our eyes met and he half-smiled. "Chandler...you're an idiot", he said, his voice low.

"I knew you were missing my face, Sarge. Had to make sure you didn't forget 'bout me already", I joked, worries and fear making me sick to my stomach.

I could see on his face that he had been beaten up real bad. Something was telling me I would go through this soon enough.

The tall man pressed his gun against my temple and lurked besides me. "Now you tell me where your men are. Or I will kill you.", he ordered.

My eyes focused on the sergeant, I smiled. "The only man I have is right in front of me. I don't know what he's waiting for but as soon as he'll be ready...the sergeant is going to kick your ass so bad for th…".

Before I could finish my joke, the tall moron hit me with his gun so hard the world sparkled for a moment. I blinked and grunted, coughed and winced, only to meet the sergeant's eyes again. There was no humor in his eyes.

There was determination. And fear.

"He knows nothing, you jackass!", he yelled. "He was with us when you attacked us! You want to kill someone? Have at me, you piece of shit!"

The tall man laughed….his laugh haunted my nightares for years after that night. Every time it rains hard...I can still hear it.

He laughed then he pointed the gun at the sergeant. "Fine', he said. "You or him. Which one dies first?"

He swayed the gun between the sergeant and me. And that's when I knew. I knew we wouldn't walk out of this camp alive. I had two choices. Accept it and die at the sergeant's side, proud and standing. Or refuse it and panic like a kid.

I must say...both options were appealing at the time.

But when I looked at the sergeant's face, when I read in his eyes that he'd rather die than letting one of his men die for him, I knew what I had to do.

I pushed myself up and stood before the tall asshole.

"You want to take someone down, you start with me. Semper fi, you coward. You feel strong by threatening men without weapons? Enjoy it. Because when the others will be here, they'll make you regret you were ever born", I provoked him, chest against his chest, ignoring the men behind me who stepped closer.

"CHANDLER. BACK OFF", the sergeant ordered. My first reflex had been to comply. As it seemed, I was a good soldier now. But I knew what would come next. I had never been involved in close combat. I always had fought from a distance, with a rifle in my hand. Thanks to the man standing here with me. He had kept me away from the first line for so long, taught me so much….This time, I had to step up and showed him I could be more than a good rifle.

The tall guy hit me in the stomach and pushed me on my knees again before aiming his gun at my forehead. I gritted my teeth and looked up at him. If I was about to die, I wouldn't look away.

Not now. Not ever.

I waited for him to take the shot. And when the detonation echoed throught the noght, my heart stopped.

Seconds that felt like centuries.

And then...my heart took another beat. My eyes flashed opened.

It took a while before my brain processed what I was seeing.

My face was covered in blood but it wasn't mine. And between me and the tall man, the lifeless body wasn't mine either.

The sergeant was looking at the sky with dead eyes, the top of his head was gone. He had thrown himself in front of me.

Taking the bullet with my name on it.

I….am not sure what happened next. I wasn't cold anymore. I wasn't afraid.

Everything...the entire world slowed down.

There was rage...and nothing else.

I have flashes of the minutes after that. Me covered in blood, shouting. I see myself tackling the tall man and hitting him repeatedly. Taking the gun from his hand and shooting the others around me. Using his body as a cover. I see myself throwing myself on every single one of them.

I remember the pain when one of them shot my side.

I remember the fear in their eyes.

I stand in the middle of the camp, surrounded by Death, covered in a blood I poured, rain washing it away.

I was standing there, certain I was dead. Not understanding while I could still see what was around me. I looked down at my hands and let go on the guns I was holding, before falling on my knees again and into the darkness.

I passed out. That, I know. I came back to consciousness a few times only to see wolves invading the camp, feeding on the dead, sniffling my face and hands.

I should have died. And in a way, I know I did.

I don't know how long I stayed there. I know that at some point, I moved to cover the sergeant's body with mine. I didn't want the wolves to touch it. They didn't. Just like they didn't touch me.

The moonlight brought me back to life. After a long dream where I was seeing myself as a wounded wolf, waiting for my wounds to heal before joining the others in a long run.

I didn't know anything about werewolves back then. I didn't know that you can be born one. That to kill someone with your own hands, not with a rifle but with your bare hands, brings up the wolf inside you.

I know my father wasn't one. But my mother….She always told me that she would take me to see the wolves one day. It took a night in Hell to understand what she truly meant.

She wanted to take me to her family when I would be old enough to understand.

She couldn't know she wouldn't be there anymore when this would happen. I doubt she ever killed someone. Maybe she never shifted. Maybe that's why she got sick.

So many questions, so little answers.

But to finish this story, I suppose I had to tell you what happened next.

I woke up in the jungle, days after that night. Weeks maybe. A squad of soldiers found me. Told me I was naked and covered in blood, wounds and bites, disorientated and growling at them.

They took me back to a safe camp and asked me what happened.

I had disobeyed a direct order and disappeared. I was going to be charged with insubordination. That me refusing to say a word wasn't helping.

But I just couldn't. First because I couldn't understand myself. Second...because I could still feel the rage burning under my skin. And something else. Something more visceral.

My mind was full with visions of wolves and I was sure I was losing my mind. They spoke about placing me into detention and the simple thought of being caged freaked me out.

I ran away as soon as I got the chance. Away from the army, away from the men.

But no matter how fast I ran, the rage and the wolf never left me.

Everything started to make sense a month later, when the full moon wrapped me into its light, turning my world into pain and shere terror for a moment before I shifted. This time, I could remember every second of it.

I was a wolf. And a deserter. I was cursed but at least, I was free."

Ethan went silent and focused his gaze on the fire. He watched the flames dancing inside the fireplace and tried to let their hypnotic slithers chase away the memories.

The professor remained silent and Ethan didn't expect him to say a word.

"You wanted to know why a soldier could turn in a fighter hiding in warehouses. Now you know. I'm not a soldier anymore, Professor. The rage kept me alive so far. I use it to earn the money I need. To survive between two full moons. What you said makes sense. The fact that the dogs go quiet when I'm around. They say we should trust animal instincts more than ours. The dogs probably know what I'm trying to deny. I'm more a wild beast than a human. Every month passing takes away another piece of my humanity. And when it will be all gone, with a little luck, I'll remain under my true form and be allowed to join my kind. A wolf among others. No past, no scars, no thoughts. There's nothing in this life I wish to remember, anyway."

He got up and sighed. "Thank you for your hospitality, Professor. You wanted a story. You got one. I believe this is my cue to leave."

He bowed his head slightly and walked to the door.

The professor didn't try to stop him.

And Ethan wasn't expected him to.

Be careful what you wish for, he thought. Some stories should never be told. As the secrets hidden within can never be untold anymore. And they linger, clinging to your soul, changing forever the way you saw the world around you.

Some stories stay with you forever. And changed you in ways you never expected.

Ethan closed the door quietly behind him. And disappeared into the cold night.


End file.
